


A Stranger in the Dark

by containyourselfladdie



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Dark, Gore, M/M, Plotty, and some fluff, apparently, but later, in my head, lotsa innuendos, peter likes those, some mush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-11-29 16:39:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/containyourselfladdie/pseuds/containyourselfladdie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter may have underestimated Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue and Part One

Peter Hale might seem like a stranger to awkward situations, and he is, because seriously? He is some gorgeous sassy ass master and he knows it. However, that does not mean he is not easily amused when others are humiliated before him.

Unfortunately, one Stiles Stilinski is not so easily humiliated (much).

Currently, Mr. Hale is standing just inside the bedroom door of young Stiles watching (leering at) him dance and sway to some rather pleasing sounding music. What really captures Peter’s attention (other than Stiles’ rather enticing posterior) is the cylindrical device held tightly in one of Stiles’ hands as he wails into the head of it.

It is a Batman Flashlight. He is singing into a Batman Flashlight. He is using a Batman Flashlight as a microphone.

(And his mouth does part so prettily in front of it)

“HOLY SHIT! You CREEPER! Does NO ONE understand common decency anymore!”

Stiles has evidently noticed his silent appraiser (stalker).

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself,” Peter lifts himself off of where he had been leaning just inside the door and nods towards Stiles’ makeshift microphone.

“Hey, no hating. It’s not like I have a real microphone, or even a toy one. And this looks kinda like it.”

“Oh, it looks like a toy, I assure you,” Peter remarks with his trademark leer.

“What? No! No! That’s, that’s not what I was doing at all!”

“I was merely making an observation.”

“Well go observe something else.”

“No, I don’t think I rather will.”

Peter moves closer to Stiles, stepping into his personal space. He gazes at Stiles’ face and breathes in, deep. Ah, the smell of Stiles, consistently horny, even when he desperately wishes he wasn't.

“Did you…Did you come here for something?” Stiles manages to ask, looking quite disconcerted.

Peter can’t help but leer, “Oh, no one’s come yet. Not without you.”

“Stop that!”

Relenting, Peter begins, “A few days ago, I smelled something off in the woods. It didn't seem too dangerous, so I didn't bother mentioning it. The Alpha Pack fiasco just ended, you know. I thought let me give everyone a break. And then, what do you know, I come across a little clearing that I hadn't noticed before. And it felt wrong. I couldn't help but think, ‘Now Peter, why haven’t you noticed it before?’ That’s when I realized. Someone had absolutely coated the area with cloaking charms. You couldn't smell a thing and the only reason I found the clearing was because of a tiny little opening, almost like a doorway that seemingly had been accidentally left open. ‘Now that’s curious,’ I thought. Surely, another coven of witches wouldn't dare step on our doorstep, not after Stiles. And then it hit me, of course, this must be Stiles’ handiwork. Then I got worried, because some of the things I saw in there. Gosh, Stiles you wouldn't believe. Dark things, dangerous things. But, I thought to give you the benefit of the doubt before I uprooted every protective enchantment and raced all the wolves there. Stiles, what exactly have you been doing in the woods at night?”

~*~

Part ONE

It was really, really dark.

The ground was a mushy mass of misunderstood gunk beneath Peter’s feet and in front of him, in front of him was one of the most horrifying images he had ever had the misfortune to see. Stiles’ body is haphazardly thrown across the rocks in front of him. The darkness made his features even more gaunt and wasted. His cheekbones were streaked with red that gleamed in the moonlight. Arms and legs were bent at awkward angles. 

But, God, his stomach. None of that compared to his stomach. Stiles’ midsection was ripped apart. His entrails littered the ground like gory confetti. His spine was clearly visible. And his heart was in full view, still completely attached to his body and to Peter’s horror, still beating.

How was Stiles alive?

Looking up Peter sees Stiles’ eyes staring into him, vacant and glazed.

“Stiles! Stiles!” Peter calls.

Stiles groans in reply.

“Peter?” he whispers.

Peter looks to his side and sees Stiles lungs, completely intact, laying next to him, rising and falling as though Stiles was still breathing through them. With dread a dead weight in his stomach, he staggers backwards and gazes in terror at the sight before him. Stiles with limbs sprawled in death, gazes up at Peter through some twisted source of empathy and mutters, “Don’t be afraid, Peter. I’m not dead yet.”

To his absolute horror, the mockery of Stiles pushes itself forward, and using its one apparent working arm drags itself towards Peter. Moving ever closer. 

A scream rips itself from Peter’s throat. 

“Don’t you see Peter? It’s already started.”

Peter staggers backwards, running from the words.

“You’re losing me too. Just like them.”

“No, no no no. NO!” Peter yells, glancing behind him. The monstrosity is still following him, dragging a trail of life blood in its wake. Organs and intestines getting caught on grass, rocks, and branches.

“You can run, Peter, but can he?”

Limbs laced with trepidation, Peter turns his head just in time to watch Stiles lift his head and bash it into a rock, breaking it open. Brain matter flows out like a river as a scream tears its way through Peter’s body. His limbs burn with the memory of fire and pain.

~*~

Shaking, Peter tears himself out of bed and stumbles into the adjoining bathroom. Cold sweat coats his body and he trembles with the force of the nightmare.

One word reverberates through his head, an echo of the seemingly prophetic dream.

Mate.


	2. The Story of Pandora and Epimetheus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The night stood as if frozen in time. The dark stillness of the moment held the forest in its vice-like grasp. It was hot, unbearably so. The humidity beat down every moment, punctuating each second with its all encompassing pressure. The forest was weighted down, leaden. The leaves hung low to the ground, tips grazing dead grass.
> 
> The night stood frozen in time. Frozen in time and dying. 
> 
> Above the trees, shining like a twisted halo was the full moon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I know in context this chapter doesn't make much sense. But trust me, this is much needed background. All will hopefully make sense relatively soon.

The night stood as if frozen in time. The dark stillness of the moment held the forest in its vice-like grasp. It was hot, unbearably so. The humidity beat down every moment, punctuating each second with its all encompassing pressure. The forest was weighted down, leaden. The leaves hung low to the ground, tips grazing dead grass.

The night stood frozen in time. Frozen in time and dying. 

Above the trees, shining like a twisted halo was the full moon.

~*~

The stillness of the moment was only broken by a young woman coming crashing through the trees. She ran as though blinded, heedless of twigs, branches, rocks, and jagged edges. The forest raged at the interruption. It reached toward her with arms of vines and wood, digging deep gashes into her sides, trailing bleeding kisses along the backs of her thighs and calves. 

Still she pushed onward, one foot then the next. Eyes blazing, her mouth hanging open, panting, she was an image of terrible radiance. Her whole soul seemed to shine out of her, lighting her up like the moon bearing witness above her. 

Her face was frozen in an expression of pure pain and terror. Everywhere she looked she saw the faces of her family burning at the pyre. Her father’s grim determination, her mother’s apathy, and worst Caleb’s fear, Caleb’s pure unadulterated fear that cut into her like knives, until the only words she could drill into her mind as she ran were, ‘Don’t look back, don’t look back, don’t look back.’

Finally, she reached the clearing where it all began. She gazed at the flowers she had so painstakingly planted, the orchids and the lilies that once bloomed as she had. Now they dropped, heads bowed as if in submission, lost to the loot of the lord.

It was now, surrounded by the rotting testament of her mistaken love, that she allowed her magic to rein free. What she had once so feared, what she had once so desperately controlled, she now allowed to rage through her. It burned like the flames she had witnessed. 

It burned like benediction.

It seared like retribution.

It felt like repentance.

“You shouldn’t do this, Panny.”

Panny turns to see Alan standing amidst the pale orchids, stems bending under his feet.

“You know this will solve nothing. “

“What is there to be solved, Alan? What is there left to save?”

“Your soul.”

“My soul? My soul? You absolute fool! Haven’t you not heard the people talk? They say I am cursed. They question whether a witch could ever truly posses a soul.”

“They are ignorant, and misguided.”

“And who is to blame for that but them?”

“No one is to blame, Panny there is more you can do-“

“No! I refuse to be talked down, Alan. He betrayed me! He stole the very life out from under me!”

“Do not kill the rest yourself!”

“How dare you speak to me as though I do not know what I have planned? As though the consequences are not welcome. So long as the Argents sow their seeds into this land, it will carry their curse.”

“You do not understand, you are more powerful than you know, Panny, there is much harm you could do.”

“Much harm has already been done.”

With that, Panny turns and begins to chant, the Lating falling off her tongue. She twists her pain into those words. The wounds of betrayal sting like acid and Pan relishes the pain. Until suddenly, it is no longer coming from inside her heart.

Pain rips through her chest and her skin peels itself open and blood pours out onto the ground. Screams mangle the Latin as she falls to the ground. Turning, she looks horrified upon the outstretched hand of Alan as he finished muttering the last Latin syllable.

An uncontrollable rage rips through her heart, “You! I should have seen, you have consorted with the Argents before and here you come to finish the job.”

“No, Panny, you know that is not true.”

“Then why?”

“I cannot allow you to do this. You will destroy this land and all who reside on it.”

“Then let them be damned! Damn then all! I pray for doom to embed itself in the very Earth beneath our feet. Let there be no haven in Beacon Hills!”

With a terrible surge of wrath Pan tosses out a hand and savagely tosses Alan back into the forest which reaches out to him with arms of vines and branches to consume him into the darkness.

Satisfied, Pan turns her attention back to finishing her spell. Frustrated she discovers the protective enchantments Alan had managed to weave into the ground. 

Digging her hands into the Earth, Pan wails a terrible cry of anger, resentment, betrayal, and pain. Blood pours out of the gashes on her stomach to paint the ground beneath her. The flow coats the area around her with a deep, rich, red that then sinks into the ground absorbed by the Earth until it is a very part of it. 

Gazing with awe, Pan makes the final decision of her life. Digging her hands in her sides she scoops out handfuls of blood until its dripping down her arms and coating her fingers. She then drags herself to the edge of the clearing and begins painting the runes into the ground with her own blood. She drags herself, hand over hand, pulling at the Earth until it gives way and replacing life with her own diseased blood. 

She grunts and groans as the pain threatens to overwhelm her. Three times she nearly stops, convinced she has come to her senses and will soon stop. Then, unbidden, the image of Caleb’s face wracked with fear appears before her eyes and she forces herself to continue. 

Pulling herself the final few feet to her final resting place, Pan digs her hands into the ground with relish, uprooting the Earth, disrupting the balance. Her hands scrub at each other, searching for more blood to fill the whole. Frustrated, she finds the worst of her cuts to have clotted, her magic taking over, attempting to heal her while it still can.

With a near howl of echoed pain she digs nails into her sides, tearing at the newly scabbed over flesh, releasing the torrents of blood held back by the flimsy tissue. The last of her strength waning, Pan falls to the ground, her blood flowing out of her body and completing the dark ritual.

With the last vestiges of her strength, Pan opens her eyes and in the distance she believes she can see the shady silhouette of a man. Whimpering and delirious from pain she manages to utter her final words.

“Have you found peace now, my Epi?”

~*~

The forest looks on as a terror stricken Alan Deaton I runs through the trees to the clearing. He gazes down upon the mangled and broken body of a young woman. Tears spring to his eyes and he drops to the ground next to her and pulls her head onto his lap. Tender fingers brush away wayward strands of hair, matted with blood and sticking to her face. 

“Oh, Pandora, my love. Would that I could have saved you. Would that I could have saved you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my tumblr: controlyourselfladdie.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr: controlyourselfladdie.tumblr.com


End file.
